“Ha—ha! Ha—ha!” mused Madame quietly. Then she asked: “Which work-girls do you say?”
And she listened astutely to Mr. May’s forced account of the work-room upstairs, extorting all the details she desired to gather. Then there was a pause. Madame glanced round the room.
“Nice house!” she said. “Is it their own?”
“So I believe—”
Again Madame nodded sagely. “Debts perhaps—eh? Mortgage—” and she looked slyly sardonic.
“Really!” said Mr. May, bouncing to his feet. “Do you mind if I go to speak to Mrs. Rollings—”
“Oh no—go along,” said Madame, and Mr. May skipped out in a temper.
Madame was left alone in her comfortable chair, studying details of the room and making accounts in her own mind, until the actual funeral guests began to arrive. And then she had the satisfaction of sizing them up. Several arrived with wreaths. The coffin had been carried down and laid in the small sitting-room—Mrs. Houghton’s sitting-room. It was covered with white wreaths and streamers of purple ribbon. There was a crush and a confusion.
And then at last the hearse and the cabs had arrived—the coffin was carried out—Alvina followed, on the arm of her father’s cousin, whom she disliked. Miss Pinnegar marshalled the other mourners. It was a wretched business.
But it was a great funeral. There were nine cabs, besides the hearse—Woodhouse had revived its ancient respect for the house of Houghton. A posse of minor tradesmen followed the cabs—all in black and with black gloves. The richer tradesmen sat in the cabs.